“William has written a formal declaration of hostilities. Tom has delivered it, and we await the response.”
“Why not attack them by surprise?” Jane looked at the group of the Damned. “We are equally matched in numbers.”
“Because they are the Damned, too. It was different when we fought the French. Those were extraordinary times.”
“And these are not?”
“Not yet,” Clarissa said. She led Jane to a large wooden box, scarred and dented with a rope handle, and threw its lid open. Inside, knives and swords were piled.
Jane knelt to select a knife, balancing one and then another in her hand, running her thumb across blades. “So there is to be some sort of duel, and then we all fight?”
“More or less. We fight if the duel is inconclusive, and if we are lucky, the graystone knives will serve more as a display of strength than anything else. Proprieties must be observed.”
“I see,” Jane said, although she had little understanding. She slipped the knife she had chosen inside her boot and loaded her pistols.
The Damned clustered around the box of graystone knives murmured quietly in Greek, William asking each of them a question and receiving a response. Blasphemously, it reminded Jane of Holy Communion, except that instead of bread and wine, each received a knife safely stowed in a small leather sheath, which was strapped to the bearer’s wrist on their outer clothing.
“They vow to use the graystone wisely and with respect,” Clarissa said. “Each swears fealty to William. They will use the weapons only as a last resort, but chances are the fight between William and Duval will be enough.”
“I’m amazed you trust him,” Jane said. “He has broken his word once.”
“I am concerned that Tom has not returned,” Clarissa said, and Jane had the impression that she had spoken out of turn in mentioning Duval’s betrayal. Clarissa crossed to the window. “Ah, here he is.”
In a few minutes Tom had entered the room and bowed to William.
“The challenge has been accepted. In two hours, and it is to take place on the grounds here.”
“Very well.” William bowed. “What the devil took you so long?”
Tom smiled. “They offered refreshment. Duval has some remarkably pretty girls there—no, Jane, you need not look at me like that; your niece was not one of them. Duval keeps her to himself by all accounts.”
Luke left William and Dorcas and came to Jane’s side. “I see you are armed, Jane. When was the last time you fought hand to hand?”
“I regret I have had few opportunities recently, unless wrestling with a particularly tough dinner,” Jane said.
“I very much doubt you’ll need to fight, but a little practice would not come amiss.” Luke unbuckled the leather strap that fastened the graystone knife onto his coat sleeve and laid it reverently aside. He removed his coat and Jane hers.
She gripped the knife, the worn wood smooth against her palm and fingers, the balance fine and true. Her feet took on a fighter’s stance before she even realized what she did, light, ready to dart and shift.
The knife clattered onto the floor.
Luke raised his eyebrows as he withdrew a dagger similar to hers from inside his waistcoat. “I trust you won’t throw your weapon away so readily.”
She shook her head, one hand at her mouth, hoping the pain in her canines would subside. “I did not think that fighting you would cause this. A sudden pain—”
“Pardon my indelicacy, but are you en sanglant?”
“No. My teeth are merely sensitive. It takes me by surprise when I least expect it.”
“It is to be expected. You and I fought together quite often as I recall. Among other things.”
To cover her blush, she lunged for the knife, spun, and aimed low at his belly.
He laughed and pivoted with graceful economy of movement, so her blade whooshed past him.
“I’m rather fond of this waistcoat. I shall have to make sure you do it no damage.”
He blocked her next few attacks with very little effort and a cool smile as though mildly entertained by her efforts. She, however, became out of breath and frustrated, until she realized his intent was to irritate her and make her lose her concentration. When he changed to an attack, she was ready, blocking his blow with a clash of blades, ducking and rolling to escape him, and almost succeeded in slashing his hamstrings behind the knee.
A small group of Damned who had gathered to watch offered a thin patter of applause.
“Better,” he said.
Their blades met, clashed, slid, jarring her wrist and arm, and she landed with a sudden thump on the floor; damn him, he had caught her off balance and tripped her.
“Not bad,” Luke said. “More?”
She looked up at him as he stood over her and considered kicking him, or even biting him—no, not that, and oh, her teeth ached again. She knew he would treat her less gently if they continued, and if he wounded her, she could accept no help or healing from him, for almost certainly his breath on her skin would catapult her into a metamorphosis. And that she could not risk, however much she desired his touch.
She shook her head. “I shall have to take my chances. I think you understand why.”
“Of course.” He offered her his hand with great courtesy.
She rose without his assistance, knowing she should not risk the touch of his bare hand upon hers, however much she might desire it. And yes, desire made her slow and clumsy as much as a dozen years of trying to forget, trying to behave as befitted a woman of her circumstances. Doubtless he knew how she felt, unless, in a gentlemanly manner, he declined to enter her mind.
She turned away to hide at least her face from him and stowed the weapon in her boot.
“Jane.” His hand was on her shoulder, and even with its leather protection, the graystone knife at his cuff wafted a cold breeze against her neck. “I know this is difficult for you. Should you wish to—”
“I thank you for your concern. I have become somewhat irritated at being told that I do not know my own mind; I daresay it is no more than most women suffer, but I find it reprehensible.”
“Of course.” He bowed. “It is an honor to have you join us once more, Jane.”
“You need not worry that I shall endanger anyone with my lack of strength or practice. I have learned some prudence over the years.”
Luke bowed and excused himself, saying that he and William must talk some more.
“I expect they talk of a succession, should . . .” Clarissa, still clad in women’s clothes, ran her thumb over the blade of one of the steel knives. “I must change into men’s clothes. Will you and Dorcas come with me? We can dine—that is, we can take refreshment, if you like.”
“Certainly.” She doubted she would be able to eat, but she knew it was best to remove herself from Luke’s disturbing presence. She went upstairs with the two women, and they passed some time drinking tea and admiring a new gown Dorcas had acquired, while Clarissa changed into coat and breeches.
“Will Luke succeed if . . . if things go badly with William?” Jane asked.
“Almost certainly. There has been friction between them, but a leader must by nature take a contrary path sometimes,” Clarissa said. “It is likely that the fighting today will be more formality than anything else.”
Dorcas said nothing, but Jane noticed her place her fingertips on the leather sheath that held her graystone knife, as though it could determine a good outcome to the fight.
Jane submitted herself to having her hair tied back, her coat and hat brushed, and her boots removed and handed to the footman who brought her a plate of cold meat and bread. Grumbling, Clarissa tied Jane’s neckcloth, complaining that if she were not so prudish, Luke would do a far superior job. The footman returned the boots, now sporting a high sheen.
Clarissa, murmuring that she had another task for the footman, left the bedchamber with him, returning after a quarter hour with shining eyes and a general air of satisfaction
that Jane recognized. The scent of a healthy young man hung around her.
“I suppose you did not leave any for me?” Dorcas inquired.
“I regret not. I recommend Peter.”
“That was Peter.”
“How can I tell? They all look the same in livery,” Clarissa said.
“Or out of it, I daresay,” Jane murmured.
“I suppose I shall have to go downstairs and find something for myself,” Dorcas said after tugging the bellpull several times without receiving a response. “It’s so difficult to find good help these days.”
Jane nibbled at a piece of bread, knowing she should eat but lacking appetite. The possibility that the duel, or however the Damned wished to refer to it, might be more than a formality and escalate to real fighting and destruction weighed heavy upon her mind. What if she could not rescue Anna? And how would things change with her mother and sister and Martha now that they knew the truth about her?
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and Clarissa bade whomever it was to enter.
Raphael stood in the doorway. “It is time, ladies.”
“Do you join us, sir?” Jane asked.
“I must. He is my brother and my Creator. I suppose everyone has drummed the dangers of your actions into your ears?”
“Yes. I am mightily sick of it. I am well aware of the risks, as indeed you must be.”
He bowed. “Come, then.”
He led them downstairs and outside the house to one of the meadows dotted with ancient oak trees. William, with Luke close at hand, and the others stood beneath the spreading branches of one tree. Dorcas and Clarissa joined them, and Jane and Raphael stood a little apart, as though in agreement that they were not quite participants, but not merely onlookers.
Duval and his followers stood beneath another tree.
It was a fine late spring day, a slight breeze ruffling the new green leaves of the trees and rippling the grass of the meadow. Skylarks sang, invisible, above in a blue sky.
“They have chosen blades,” Raphael said to Jane.
William and Duval, sure enough, drew rapiers and walked forward to meet between the two groups. They had removed their coats and thus the graystone knives each had strapped to the outside of their sleeves.
“How can immortals fight a duel to a conclusive end?” Jane asked as the combatants saluted.
“Whoever bloodies the other a third time in succession wins. It’s rather like tennis.” Raphael gave a tense smile. “They can hardly decapitate each other with those weapons.”
Rather more like a chess match or a dance, as the two Damned stepped, parried, thrust. The onlookers applauded occasionally at particularly elegant moves, and then Duval’s followers gave a shout as a spot of blood appeared and spread on William’s arm. The pace quickened, William driving Duval back—his household broke apart to give the duelists more room, and then gathered again.
“Bravo!” Raphael said. “See, Jane, he caught Duval on the right thigh. So they’re even now.”
The fight intensified, the blades flashing in the sunlight, and with more intent now, the two of them moving this way or that. Most of the onlookers were en sanglant, aroused by the blood. It was so very different from the fighting Jane had learned, the ungentlemanly, informal attacks against a human enemy in skirmishes and ambushes.
Beside her, Raphael grimaced and raised a hand to his own mouth, a gesture Jane recognized.
William and Duval separated, rapiers pointing down.
“What’s happening?” Jane asked.
“They’ve agreed to take a few minutes’ rest,” Raphael replied. “They exchanged a signal but a few seconds ago.”
William returned to Luke’s side. They spoke together briefly, and Luke breathed on the wound on William’s arm to stanch it. A footman offered the two combatants wine, and William drained his glass and placed the empty vessel on the tray. This time Jane saw the small gesture he made to Duval to continue, and the duel resumed.
The sun lowered in the sky and still the fight continued, with an occasional break, the grass stamped flat and releasing its scent, along with that of vampire blood, upon the air.
“They’re well matched,” Raphael said. “Why the devil does he not use his superior strength? He has a longer reach than Duval, too. He may seek to tire him. Sometimes my brother is more subtle than wise.”
“What will happen when darkness falls?” Jane asked.
“They will continue, although they will probably stop to dine. William will have to play host.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Jane said, made uneasy by the possibility that she would be beneath the roof of the Great House while the Damned took their pleasure.
Duval fell back, blood spreading upon his arm, and William lunged in to prick him on the thigh.
“Two cuts!” Raphael said. “Follow him, William, take him—”
But Duval recovered, rallied, and slashed at William’s face, laying open his face to the bone. Blood spread and dripped onto his shirt.
“Not altogether gentlemanly,” Raphael commented. “Now they become serious.”
Duval stepped back and made a gesture with his free hand, but William shook his head, refusing a break, and now his fighting changed: still as graceful, but more deadly, with more speed. He drove Duval back and to the side.
Raphael grinned. “Ah, he attempts to position Duval facing the sun. Better, William.” He grabbed Jane’s arm and pulled her aside as the fighters neared them, close enough for them to hear the fast breathing, the pounding footfalls, and to see blood fly from William’s cheek.
William’s blade darted and flashed, raising two crimson splotches on Duval’s shirt, on shoulder and upper arm.
Duval stepped back, missed his footing, and fell, his rapier dropping from his hand.
“Duval may concede,” Raphael said.
William bowed and lowered his blade, waiting with the greatest courtesy for his opponent to rise.
Duval reached for his rapier and half rose, as though his ankle was wrenched. A low murmur issued from the onlookers. A wrench or sprain, for one of the Damned, was not something that could be cured instantaneously, the damage having taken place beneath the skin. Although it would heal faster than a similar injury to a mortal, this could mean that the fight, and therefore Anna’s rescue, would be delayed.
William stepped back, his rapier pointed down, and bowed again. Had some sort of agreement passed between them?
Duval rose to one knee and sprang from his kneeling position at William. He was armed; even in the sunlight the small blade he wrenched from his boot was dull, deadly, the color of dust. He struck William’s breast.
William took a step backward. His step faltered, and his rapier fell from his hand and rolled onto the grass. He sank to one knee, a hand at his breast, and Jane remembered the deadly chill, the weakness she had felt.
Luke rushed to his side and supported him.
“Treachery!” Raphael ran forward to join them, tears running down his face. “My brother!”
Duval stood, the small weapon in his hand, a triumphant smile upon his face.
For a moment the Damned were frozen in place, before weapons were drawn, blades that glittered in the sunlight. Jane did not look to see if any were also prepared to use their graystone knives. She drew a pistol, cocked it, her movements smooth as silk, her mind as detached as though she watched herself from a distance.
The Damned stood poised, as though awaiting an order, although William’s household drew close around their fallen leader.
She aimed, pulled the trigger, and heard Duval’s curse as the hand that held the graystone knife exploded in a flurry of blood and bone. He staggered, but recovered, and hurtled toward Jane, en sanglant.
She saw the murderous look in his eye and knew he intended to rip her throat out. Her hands shook as she pulled and cocked the second pistol, and then he was upon her, with the strength and fierceness of an ancient vampire at the height of his powers.
Pain ripped through her jaw.
The world shook in a dazzle of brightness.
The trigger—steel, a forge, brightness, fire, the hiss of red hot metal plunged into water—she threw off the sensations, aimed, and fired.
Duval fell back, a dark hole in his forehead, destroyed and sent to hell by Jane’s hand.
Chapter 20
Jane dropped to her knees, her hands upon the grass, and the slow strength and quest of the roots of plants and trees flowed into her palms.
I am Damned.
“Take care!” Someone grabbed her shoulder, pulling her upright into a tumult of anger and blood and clashing blades. Clarissa, her face streaked with blood, grasped her arm and pulled her aside.
Jane stumbled, her limbs clumsy, senses overwhelmed. She reached for the knife in her boot, but the leather and the wood of the hilt came alive at her touch, a confusion of sensation. She drew her hand away.
“No, you must not fight,” Clarissa said, and she turned to slash at one of Duval’s followers who leaped at them. He retreated, blood welling from his arm, his coat ripped. “You are too new, too weak.”
Dorcas joined Clarissa, the two of them fending off any of Duval’s followers who approached. Jane sank to the ground again and wept, overcome with confusion and grief, while the sounds of battle died away.
“Jane.” Luke’s voice was quiet, his touch on her shoulder a comfort. “It is done. It is over. Come.”
She stood and clung to him. She was en sanglant, her teeth sensitive and aching, and hungry. All she could smell was blood, Duval’s, William’s, sharp and fresh; and then the particular scent of Luke, dark and heady and arousing.
She raised her hand to her mouth in an attempt to get her teeth under control. “I am Damned.”
“You must speak with William. There is little time.”
William lay on Raphael’s shoulder; Raphael covered with blood, and en sanglant, weeping.
She fell to her knees at William’s side and took his hand, chill and heavy in hers. “I am sorry,” she choked out.
“No, you should not apologize. I was never a true Creator to you and I am sorry for it.”
Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion Page 20
